Page 205 of Forbidden Forget-Me-Not

“Oh no, you don’t get off that easy. You at least have to help pick the desserts.”

He laughed. “I think I can handle that.”

I took his arm as we ambled toward the waiting vehicle.

“Is Goran joining us?”

“He had a meeting, but he’ll be at the next one. He better be, anyway.”

Yakov smiled.

“He will if he knows what’s good for him. I won’t let him make my mistakes.”

As we reached the car, I glanced back at the outdoor arena. Corey laughed and patted Atlas. Standing on this side of the ring was a change, but seeing how happy Corey was and how Atlas thrived gave me peace of mind.

I only hoped that Goran’s day was going this well.

GORAN

Some vendettas were not worth the risk. But this one…this one I couldn’t let go.

I reclined into the red leather chair, sipping my drink as I waited. Guy stood behind the door, ready to pounce. The VIP room of the strip club Dylan frequented was nothing like Nathaniel’s clubs. This place reeked of desperation and loneliness. It was probably why the owner had so easily taken a bribe to look the other way.

The door handle turned, and a petite blonde led Dylan inside. He was so focused on the stripper that he failed to notice the trap until Guy slammed the door shut.

Dylan jumped and whipped around, eyes landing on Guy.

“Thank you for your help.”

Dylan’s head snapped in my direction, and he started to scream. One punch from Guy sent him to the floor.

“Anytime.” The stripper flashed me a smile. “If you change your mind and I can be of any assistance, just let me know.”

Guy handed her a thick wad of cash that she counted happily on her way out. Dylan began to stir as Guy positioned himself back in front of the door.

“You can’t do this,” Dylan spat. “I’ll sue you. My father has the best lawyers.”

“You assume that you’re leaving this room alive,” I drawled, polishing off my drink. I set the glass aside and slowly stood.

“Whoa…you can’t kill me…that’s murder.” Panic crept into his voice.

“You don’t say?” My tone was laced with sarcasm. “I always forget how that works.”

The tension thickened, blending with the sickly-sweet scent lingering in the room. I cocked an eyebrow, peeled off my suit jacket, and hung it on the lone hook.

“Tell me, Dylan…who exactly do you think I work for?”

“The Mikhailov family,” he stammered, scrambling to his feet.

He grabbed the back of the leather chair, presumably to put a barrier between us. I stalked toward him, and he stumbled backward, landing on the couch.

“Do you know who the Mikhailovs are,” I asked, shifting the chair to the middle of the room.

“Who they are doesn’t matter. You can’t keep me in here. You can’t touch me,” he snarled even as he cowered on the couch.

I rolled up my sleeves, revealing the tattoos I normally kept hidden.

“You really should know who your father’s business associates are…and their reputations. Not very smart of you, Dylan.”